Secrets & Rhythms
by terrified
Summary: A one-shot, prompt fill. Not many deserve second chances, much less get them. When Molly meets with an intriguing new love, it drives Sherlock to finally take matters into his own hands. It was too late once. Now, he has to go back to stay ahead. (John Harrison references, but this is still Sherlock/Molly)


_**A/N: **This is my take on a prompt which I found very tricky. I was asked to write about Molly and John getting engaged and Sherlock rushing to confess his love before she got married. As I find love triangles a rather painful topic, as well as am unable to imagine John Watson and Molly romantically involved, I have twisted this to use another John i.e. John Harrison. Hence, this rather insane version of the original prompt and of course, my infamous insane length to boot. In any case, I hope you can sort through the madness and enjoy this somehow! x_

* * *

**Secrets & Rhythms**

The change had been so subtle that even the great consulting detective had not noticed. Molly seemed to smile a little more to herself, particularly so when he was _not_ in the room. He had only found this out when he walked past the morgue and peered into the circular perspex panels of its doors. There she was, smiling sweetly to herself as she made notes on her clipboard, carefully circling the grey body she examined. However, it was only when she started forbidding him to come to the lab at night, that he really pricked up his ears and took note.

It was just after 11 p.m. and Sherlock had finished surveying a crime scene. He had collected some skin samples from the victims and was hoping to run analyses on them right away. He knew Molly would be in but also knew that she had forbidden him from coming to look for her at those hours. Smirking to himself, the detective who never listened to the instructions of others, hailed a taxi and was on his way to Bart's. 

* * *

"It's like _magic_," Molly whispered, "How did the cells just regenerate like that?"  
"Well, some things have to remain secret for a little while longer," said the dark-haired man who stood next to her. He was dressed simply, in a long-sleeved black top and equally dark trousers. There was a sheen from how neatly his dark hair was smoothed back.  
"Do you know what this means, John?" Molly asked, her voice in an excited whisper.  
"Mmm?" he answered, shifting a little closer to her.  
"This could cure glaucoma…" she began, "Frankly, I think it'd cure blindness. Just think, self-repairing retinal ganglion cells, or self-repair for the cornea. It's just…I feel like we've struck gold or some—"

Molly's excited little speech was interrupted when the man beside her smiled, before leaning to kiss her gently on the lips. It started gentle, as it always did, but Molly would find her arms snaking around him, magnetically fixing herself to him as he reciprocated in kind. His kiss was heated and it radiated through every fibre of Molly's being. 

* * *

They had met months ago. Strangely, it had been the same way she had first met Sherlock. This quiet, stern and frightfully intelligent human being simply strode into her lab one evening and freely used the apparatus and chemicals available. Not only that, he seemed particularly keen on having Molly's input and insisted she did experiments with him, promising her that he had marvellous things to show her that would turn her world upside down. There was no falsehood in his claims. Every night, without fail, the man who called himself John Harrison, would show up by Molly's side in the wee hours of the night, revealing strange little scientific anomalies, such as those tonight, and pore over whatever new research she was working on.

What was different, however, had been what occurred after those hours at the laboratory. Unlike Sherlock, this mysterious John Harrison had steadily romanced his way into Molly's life. It started with little gestures at the lab where he would open the door for her, or help her with her lab coat. Then, as their comfort with each other grew, as did the intrigue he brought to Molly, he offered to take her home, by which she readily agreed.

And then there was that unforgettable kiss. The first time he had touched lips with her, Molly had felt like she was going to melt. There was a certain way in which he kissed her. First, he pressed his lips against hers, almost crushing their mouths together. Then he would take a deep breath, as though drawing the life out of her, before coaxing her mouth open with his own, his tongue slowly but surely reaching in to taste hers. It was a rhythm he repeated each time, but it was one she never got sick of. Rather, it had become a pleasurable addiction.

Not only was he intoxicating, Molly would always notice a sense of danger about him. Wherever they walked, whether it was along the Bart's corridors or the tiny street that led to her flat, she noticed that people just moved out of their way. Yet, she herself felt undeniably safe with him. Despite the hardness of his eyes and the rarity of his smiles, Molly trusted John Harrison with her life. It was as though she had known him for always.

"Why do you walk me home, John?" Molly had asked him one evening, her soft hand held firmly in his own.  
"Because I want you to be safe," he replied, turning his head to meet her eyes.  
"I've gone home safe many times on my own, you know," she said, suppressing a smile.  
"I know," he answered, suppressing a small smile of his own, "But I like to be sure."  
"So what if I died? Or got hurt?" Molly said in jest.  
"Never say that, Molly Hooper," he replied sharply.

John had stopped in his tracks and looked Molly fiercely in the eyes. Her smile vanished when she registered none on his face. Instead, all she could see was quiet but dark ferocity, one that bored right into her soul.

"Molly Hooper," he said, suddenly drawing her to him.

Molly could remember the firmness of his grip around her as he pressed her close to his chest. She could not hear a heartbeat, at least not one she recognised. However, the intensity of his embrace and the sensation of him kissing her hair distracted her from any further thoughts.

"Yes?" she had whispered in reply as he crushed her to him.  
"I think it's time," he said, one hand reaching to tilt her face to his.  
"For what?" she breathed.  
"For me to marry you," he remarked, before slowly kissing her, making sure he could taste all of her. 

* * *

They broke apart from their kiss, only to smile knowingly at each other.

"So are you going to let me in on the secret then?" she asked him.  
"I am almost tempted to," he replied, his eyes bright and dancing.  
"Surely if I'm going to be the future Mrs Harrison, you'd tell me ev—.."

"What do you mean the future Mrs Harrison? You're not wearing a ring, you can't be the missus of anyone." came the fast and agitated voice of Sherlock Holmes. Standing at the lab door creating a rather formidable shadow, Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the tall stranger before him.

"Sherlock, I told you not to come anymore," Molly said with gritted teeth. She moved away from John and stormed towards Sherlock.

The detective looked down at the normally cheerful and smiling pathologist only to see her eyes dark and angry with not a trace of a smile.

"Was there something you needed?" she whispered sternly. Molly could not quite place the anger in her voice. Was she upset at having her time with John interrupted? No, they shared plenty of time alone together at her flat. Was she angry that she had been discovered? That Sherlock Holmes had once again barged into a good thing that was happening in her life?

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock, and then leave, please," she said, "I'm always happy to help you but I told you specifically, not these hours…"

"Mr Holmes…" came the still voice of John Harrison.  
"Yes, Mister…?" Sherlock answered, continuing to eye the stranger warily.  
"John is fine," he said, walking up to stand beside Molly.  
"Yes, _John_?" Sherlock said with a smirk.  
"Was there something you needed? Molly and I are very happy to he—…"  
"I don't need _your _help," he said, glaring at John Harrison, only to turn and leave.

Before he left, he turned back and this time, glared hard at Molly.

"And I won't be needing _your _help." he whispered fiercely, before turning to walk out of the lab.

When Sherlock left, Molly felt utterly crestfallen. She was puzzled at how angry she had been at Sherlock's presence. After years of tolerating him, surely she could have been patient just one more time. As she stood rooted to the spot, still reeling slightly from the severity of their confrontation, she felt John's arms wrap tightly around her.

"Don't be sad, Molly," he whispered, kissing her neck, "It will be all right in the end."  
"I know," she answered, a small smile returning, "I've got you." 

* * *

Despite his best efforts, Sherlock could not help it and found himself using all his investigative abilities and resources to find out about Molly's engagement. He was curious and slightly perturbed about this John Harrison character. After all, he had just appeared out of nowhere. Still, Sherlock Holmes could find no reason to hate him either.

"I just felt…we had a lot in common somehow. Like we were the same person. Is that odd?" Sherlock had asked his trusted friend, John Watson.  
"You and Molly? Or you and the…new man?" John replied.  
"The man, of course!" Sherlock had snapped back angrily. "Molly and I have_always_ had everything in common…We're meant to be in every way…There's no need to ask questions about _that_…" he mumbled. John Watson chuckled at his friend's backhanded confession of his feelings for the pathologist everyone knew and loved as Molly Hooper.

Sherlock stood up from his armchair and began pacing the flat.

"So, are you going or not?" John asked the pacing detective.  
"Going where?" Sherlock remarked frustratedly.  
"To Molly's wedding, of course. You told me it was today…twelve o'clock at…"  
"There is no wedding, John, weren't you listening?" Sherlock interrupted.  
"You were talking at the speed of light, mate…"  
"There is _no_ wedding because they're just going to get married quietly," Sherlock answered through clenched teeth, "They're merely going to register it and go have dinner at a fancy restaurant or something… Hardly a wedding…"  
"Still, they_ are_ getting married…"

It was as though a coil had been released from the inside of Sherlock. John was sure he witnessed what was more certainly desperation in the eyes of the infamous detective. True enough, Sherlock quite literally leapt across the hall for his coat, only to then fly out of the flat as fast as his legs could carry him. John smiled to himself. It did not take a genius to guess where Sherlock was headed. 

* * *

_Molly Harrison?_

_Molly Hooper-Harrison?_

_Mrs Harrison? Mrs Hooper-Harrison?_

The knocks on the door interrupted Molly's train of thought. She scrambled to stand up from her dressing table only to see her fiancé, John Harrison, peeking in.

"Can I come in?" he asked.  
"John, of course," she said, delighted to see him.

John smiled as he took in the sight of Molly, the bride-to-be. As they had elected to keep it simple and only a matter of paperwork, Molly's bridal get-up was equally simple. Nevertheless, she had picked a lovely white dress with delicate hand-painted blue flowers adorning it. She had let her hair down, sweeping it to the side. On the other side, she had fastened her hair with a delicate comb adorned with the tiniest emeralds, an heirloom passed down from her mother.

"Beautiful." John said to her, walking over to kiss her gently.  
"Thank you," she replied, smiling at him.

It was about time for them to set off. Molly quickly glanced at herself in the mirror, checking her appearance one final time. John waited patiently, watching Molly calmly as she smoothed her skirt and adjusted the comb in her hair.

"So, shall we?" she asked, walking up to John and giving him a kiss.  
"Yes, but first, have a seat, Molly," John said.  
"John, we've got to go, we're booked at the registrar's office for noon…"  
"This won't be long…just…sit down," said, John taking her by the hand and seating her by her bed.  
"What's wrong?" Molly asked worriedly.

John cleared his throat and looked up at Molly. Nothing but peace and calm radiated from his face. Hints of a smile could be seen at the corners of his lips but mostly, John Harrison was a picture of pure stillness. He took both of Molly's hands in his, bringing it up to his lips and kissing it. He stared down at her hands that bore no rings on their fingers and smiled. There was no need for him to propose with a ring. After all, he was not going to marry her.

"Molly," John began.  
"Yes?" she answered softly.  
"I am not going to marry you," John said, keeping her hands firmly in his.  
"What do you mean?" Molly asked calmly.  
"In precisely 17 minutes and 22 seconds, Sherlock Holmes will come running up the stairs to your flat, letting himself in by picking your lock and banging on this very bedroom door, asking to see you."  
"So?" Molly asked incredulously, staring at John whose gaze was downcast, fixated on her hands.  
"So, Molly, my dear Molly Hooper," John remarked, reaching to touch her face, "I am not going to marry you. At least not today."  
"Are you saying you're going to let Sherlock Holmes be the reason you and I can't be together?" she said, confused. Her words came out fast like bullets. "If you think I'm going to let someone like Sherlock Holmes _ruin_ my life _again_…"  
"Shh, Molly." John interrupted gently, placing his fingers over her lips.  
"I don't understand…" she said quietly, reaching for his hand, "I love you, John. And I know you love me. It's in my _bones_. I've not felt like this with_anyone…_"

John paused to laugh softly as he leaned in to kiss her.

"That's where you're wrong, Molly." said John quietly.  
"Tell me how I'm wrong…" she asked obstinately.  
"Sherlock Holmes slipped up, he made a mistake…" John explained, the corner of his lip raised slightly.  
"I don't know what you mean…"  
"Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to him," John continued, his eyes looking deep into Molly's, "…was the one person that mattered the most."  
"I don't understand," Molly whispered, shutting her eyes as she felt John's hands slip away from hers.  
"You will in the end," he whispered back, "For now, do one thing for me. One last thing."  
"Only if you tell me how those cells regenerated…" Molly said with a soft, resigned laugh.  
"Do one thing for me, Molly, please…" John asked again.  
"What is it?"  
"Say yes to Sherlock Holmes." John said, standing up slowly.

When Molly looked up, John was gone. She had not even heard the creak of a door hinge or the soft padding of his footsteps. John had simply vanished. Molly blinked about herself curiously, as though she had just woken up from a dream. It had not been a dream, for she was still wearing her so-called wedding outfit and still had the comb in her hair.

For a long while, Molly remained where she was, trying to piece together everything John had said. Her emotions were scattered, like the gentle blue flowers on her dress. There was such an odd mix of thoughts that Molly's system did not know how to react, She felt everything and nothing, all at the same time. Still, she took a deep breath and was just about to change out of her dress when she heard the sound of thundering footsteps followed by the loud banging of her bedroom door.

"Molly! Molly! Are you still there? Open up!" came the bellowing voice of Sherlock Holmes.

John Harrison had not been a dream after all. He had told her Sherlock was going to come look for her, and here he was. Molly got up and opened the door, only to be greeted by a wide-eyed and panting detective.

"Molly…" he exclaimed, quite close to gasping.  
"What's happened? Are you okay?" she asked, eyeing him curiously.  
"I…I…where…" he paused to cough and collect himself, "Are you married yet?"  
"No, as you can see, I'm still here and my fiancé has disappeared…" she said, surprisingly calmly. Molly walked back to the edge of her bed and sat back down.  
"Oh…I see…" Sherlock muttered uncertainly, "I-I'm sorry…"  
"It's all right." Molly said with resignation, "What's new…"  
"Is there…is there anything I can…do for you..?" the detective asked clumsily.  
"No," Molly said, walking over to her dressing table, pulling the comb out of her hair. "There's nothing you can do for me, Sherlock Holmes.

The detective stood awkwardly in the middle of her room as Molly carefully packed her mother's comb away. Slowly, she began to comb her hair with her fingers as she bundled it up into a more casual twist.

"If you'll excuse me, Sherlock, I should like to get out of this dress," said Molly, turning to face the detective.

Without a word, Sherlock strode over to where Molly was and knelt beside her. They were now face to face and his clear blue eyes looked straight into her melancholy hazel ones.

"Yes? Sherl—"

Before Molly could finish asking about Sherlock's bizarre antics, he promptly stunned her to silence when he reached forward, cupping her face with his hands and kissing her. Sherlock pressed his lips against hers firmly, quite literally crushing his mouth to hers. He then drew a deep breath, one of both desperation and satisfaction as he moved to tease her mouth apart with his own, only to slowly taste her tongue with his. After they kissed and pulled apart from each other, Molly gasped at the frightening familiarity of that kiss.

"What?" asked Sherlock, worried.  
"Kiss me again," she whispered, drawing his face to hers.

Again and again, Sherlock kissed her with that same rhythm that had intoxicated her before, the pleasurable addiction she was sure she would die without. Here was the man she had always loved, kissing her for the first time in the exact way she loved. They separated again, their foreheads touching as they gasped for air. Molly could hardly feel her heartbeat anymore. It had turned into a crazed hum in her chest.

"Molly…" Sherlock said quietly, their foreheads still touching.  
"Yes, Sherlock?" she answered, her hands wrapped gently around his neck.  
"I was wondering…if you would like to have coffee…" he asked.

Molly chuckled in amusement at his words and removed her hands from his neck to tilt his face to hers. Kissing him slowly and gently, she remembered the last thing John Harrison had asked of her. Even though nothing had made sense to her, everything seemed to be happening as he had said. She had no reason to go against it.

"Yes," she answered, smiling at the detective before her, "Yes, Sherlock. I would love to." 

* * *

When John Harrison returned after his time travelling stint, he raced to the holding chambers, hoping against hope that his plan had worked and that bending time and space had been worth it. After frantically punching in the security codes, the heavy doors slid open with a hiss. John rushed to the rows of cryotubes lined up and did a quick count.

"There must be one more, there must be that one more…" he muttered to himself as he paced the rows of bodies of people put to sleep from a time long ago. Finally, at the end of the room, he saw the one tube he had been hoping to see. It lay next to the large cryotube that held the entire Watson family; Mary, John and their children, Sophie and Harold.

When he peered into it, the heart that lay dormant in John Harrison's body almost stirred to life when he saw the peaceful sleeping face that looked back at him. He knelt down to read the label at the base of the tube and a smile of relief cracked through his steely veneer.

_Molly Hooper-Holmes._

It had been worth it after all. It had been worth it going back to rectify the foolishness of his past self. As Sherlock, he had been too proud and too blind to see that Molly was not a presence to be taken for granted. Before Sherlock had been transformed by the new technologies and new medicines that began perpetuating their society, Molly had left his life already. She had moved away, far from the frightening advancements they were making in science. Rather, the advancements were not the ones that were scary. It was what they were being used for that terrified her. She fled, alone, abandoning science and the only man she ever loved. He was never going to follow her, so she never asked.

When John Harrison awoke, millennia later, he remembered the war that had forced him to put all of his loved ones into the similar icy slumber he had been in. And though the iciness of his former self had been enhanced to feel absolutely nothing in this new body of his, he felt an inexplicable sorrow when he realised Molly Hooper had not been saved. He had saved everyone, but he could not save her. Sherlock had not been able to save her in time. When the war broke out, Sherlock still had no clue of her whereabouts.

So he took the risk, the calculated risk of transporting himself back in time to rectify Sherlock's mistake. As John slowly began to wake Molly, he knew it had all been worth it. His plan had succeeded and she was now safe. As Molly lay in the recovery room, slowly emerging from her thousand-year sleep, John stayed by her. He waited patiently, knowing that the waking times varied for different people. After all, what was a mere hour or so when he had waited millennia for the chance to save her?

When her eyes finally opened, taking in the light of the room she was in, John watched as Molly took slow breaths, her body remembering its natural functions. He hovered above her, catching her gaze. Molly blinked, stunned and said not a word. John looked down at her calmly, grateful that she had woken up healthily.

"Sherlock…" she said, "Where's Sherlock…he said he would be here when we woke up…where is he…" she began, panic registering from the beeping machines that monitored her vitals.  
"Molly, calm down, Molly," John said quietly, "Look at me, Molly. Look hard."

At his words, Molly stopped her tirade of panic and looked right at John. She studied his eyes and the shape of his face. He was in a familiar long-sleeved top and trousers, both black as night.

"John Harrison?" she whispered, gasping softly, "No…you're not him…you're…Sherlock? No…I'm dreaming, no…I'm dead…"  
"Molly," John repeated, gently reaching for her hands. "It's me."

How did he look just like John Harrison, and just like her husband, Sherlock Holmes? Why did these two men, separate beings in her memory, now appear to be the same being? She saw each of them in this man that stood before her.

"I don't understand…" she whispered, unwittingly intertwining her fingers with his.  
"I am the man you love, Molly," John answered, "And I am the man who loves you."  
"I must be dreaming…" she said, covering her eyes with her hands, "Or dead. I must have died in the war…"

John smiled, amused at her reaction. It was normal for people to wake with panic and confusion and Molly was no exception. He merely helped her up and sent her to have a shower and get into a fresh set of clothes so that she could properly recuperate.

When Molly was brought to him, she walked tentatively towards him, feeling an inexplicable magnetism to the familiar man before her.

"How is this possible?" she whispered, touching her hand to his face.

John bent to kiss her and Molly did not flinch. Not even the sleep of a thousand years could make Molly forget her body's natural inclination towards the rhythm of his kiss. The way he pressed his lips firmly against hers, that wonderful, desperate breath he would draw before deepening their kiss as the familiar heat melted every bone in her body. This was her secret pleasure. When she pulled apart and looked hard at the man she loved, she smiled and her eyes brightened in understanding.

"So, are you finally going to tell me about those self-repairing cells?" she asked him with a smirk.  
"Yes," he said, kissing her gently once more, "Now there are to be no more secrets."  
"Good," she said, with a laugh, "Because I've waited a _very_ long time."

**END**


End file.
